The electric cart whizzed down the tarmac. She waited until they passed the noisy hangar where they build the Friday ships then glanced at him. He was staring at his paper-cut fingers.
Placards identified passing buildings: Day Owls. Peripatetic Cows. Northbound Coyotes. Right-handed Herons. Crows. Magpies. Black Cats.
He slumped. He didn’t want to be seen by the other handlers – not while they were cleaning up his mess. All those dead albatrosses…
She stopped at a dilapidated out-building. “It’s not the end of the world,” she tried.
He looked away. “What if it’s … a sign?”
She handed him a bag of finger protectors. “At Otto’s Omens we … ?”
“… We make our own luck.” He stepped out and braced himself for a second day of re-routing unforwarded chain letters.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Stars aren’t gonna shoot themselves!”
She depressed the accelerator and fled her clumsy joke.
